Confessions of my Past, Present and Future
by
Wayne Lemmons
The Past
I was nineteen or twenty, living in a leased home in
Northern Kentucky, and scraping by as a waiter at the local Steak ‘n’ Shake.
Bothering people while they’re eating wasn’t the most lucrative of work for a
young man such as I, but there were a few bucks in my pocket on any given day
and I was comfortable with the situation.
The one luxury I allowed myself was reading. I wasn’t
really a drinker and didn’t care for the other avenues for altering the mind,
but books were always my version of fixing. From the moment I could sound out
the words of your average Dick and Jane
I was looking for the story behind everything. Writing was part of my passion,
but that hadn’t become my addiction just yet.
The jones for a new set of paragraphs and chapters was
wild in me that night as I walked through a supermarket with my roommate. I
scrambled up and down aisles in search of that magic section that would allow my
urge to be sated. Disappointment was in my future.
The shelves were full of Romance and Crime, scattered
with magazines and old King novels that I’d already paged through dozens of
times. The shakes were upon me, making the word-junky itch, as I scanned that
rack of nothing. Finally, I settled on something with an oddly gruesome cover
and title from an author I’d never heard of. As we left Kroger, I was holding a
bag full of Blood Crazy by Simon
Clark.
Hours later, sometime well past midnight, I was still tearing through the pages, absorbing the crazy vibe of that story. I remember looking at a clock near the end of the book, realizing that it was four in the morning, and looking back to the book. To hell with the time and the obligations of a guy who made two bucks an hour plus tips! I was close to finishing and couldn’t wait until sleep had come and gone. I needed that fix!
When I turned the last page, hoping that I’d missed a few
more behind it, a feeling of amazement crept up on me. This book wasn’t like
the usual behemoths I’d been digesting from Koontz, King, and sometimes
Grisham. It was shorter, but so much stronger than anything I’d ever read.
I wouldn’t find another Simon Clark novel for years, due
to that whole pre-internet world, but I would keep searching until I did. I’ve
found and devoured the others he’s written long since, but none will ever top
the first one. None.
The Present
I’ve left that young man behind in order to make more
money and have a lot more fun, but the junky remains. My addiction to books has
flourished with the new world of independent authors and the many gateways to
their talents. I’ve expanded my preferences and even thrown my own name into
the Kindle hat, but few have done it half as well as Christopher Moore.
I’m re-reading Lamb:
The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s
Childhood Pal, and still laughing at the absurdity while nodding at Mr.
Moore’s interpretation of the events that have shaped billions of lives at this
point. His ability to work with subtle details while crashing through anything
that might be considered offensive by the masses never ceases to amaze me.
Have I read everything he’s written? Of course! What
addict wouldn’t try his dealer’s new stuff? I’ve poured through Fool and The Stupidest Angel with the same hunger displayed while reading A Dirty Job. There is a list out there
of all the Moore books and I feel that everyone needs to start checking them
off.
There are so many more that I can touch on. Blake Crouch
is an incredible artist, pulling you into whatever scene he’s in the midst of
describing. J.A. Konrath can give you the giggles or make you sick to your
stomach within the bounds of a single paragraph. Kimberly Bettes knows how to
give you that chill that every fan of unsettling horror actually searches for.
There are just so many great authors now, so many that I
couldn’t begin to list all of them, and the older guys who actually had to sell
a book to someone in order to have it read are still here with us. King and
Koontz are still writing. Ketchum can still churn a good one out for the
masses. Grisham wrote about Italians playing American football and made it
insanely interesting!
How lucky are we to have all of this talent surrounding
us, providing for us, writing for us?
Wait. I went on a rant, didn’t I? Let’s push on to the
future so that I can stop.
The Future
2045. Such a year does exist, I’m sure, and I can only
hope that I’ll get a chance to see it. You never know what tomorrow brings and
there are a lot of tomorrows in a span of thirty-years.
Hopefully, and I mean that in the loosest way possible, I
will find myself at a new kind of writing machine that doesn’t require my
gnarled hands to type sixty to eighty words in a minute as I continue to siphon
stories from the well hidden in my mind. We’ve all got one and I’m thinking
that mine might not dry up by then as long as I don’t cover it with mental
plywood.
Will there be humor in my writing? Sure. Without a few
chuckles, a story can get downright disconcerting. In the worst of situations,
a grin can be had along with a giggle or two if I’m still funny by the time I’m
faking senility.
Will there be strength in the words? Wow, I hope so. My
writing has matured in the years since I was slinging shakes for tips, but I
still feel that I have a long way to go before finding my true voice. It’s in
there somewhere, though finding it takes time and the people who read my books
might just get to grow a little with me. I feel like that’s as true a statement
as I can make.
Finally, what genre will I focus on? Nope! No main focus
for this guy! I have many tales to tell, some frightening while others are uplifting.
Finding a voice doesn’t mean that I need to use the same accent every time I
spit out a few words. The page tells me what’s happening, not the other way
around, so as long as the voices in my head stay fresh and confused, so will
the work.
I feel like I could go on for pages, but blog length
doesn’t allow for a novella and I’m sure you’re almost tired of reading my
opinions. I promise that the books are better, though I likely rant there too.
Nev, thanks so much for allowing me to participate in this
forum. I’ve enjoyed it more than the readers, I’m sure, because I got to write
about the thing that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand. The words,
man. I think I need another fix.
You can buy The Story’s Writer here:
You can buy any of Wayne’s other books here.
Wayne has a launch party going on this week on Facebook
for his newest book, Not This Thursday,
coming out on (surprisingly this Thursday) 21st July. Please pop
along and help Wayne celebrate this launch here:
If you would like to help support Confessions of a
Reviewer, then please consider using the links below to buy any of the
books mentioned in this feature. This not only supports me but also lets
me know how many people actually like to buy books after reading my
reviews.
Thanks.
Remember when you were a kid and told everyone that you
wanted to be an astronaut-cowboy-billionaire? I didn't really do any of that,
but the principle still remains the same. I'm a wrench-monkey by day, a
writer/editor/proof-reader/drunkard by night, and a scuba diver on the
weekends. I was born in Kentucky and somehow found myself on Clearwater Beach
living in a houseboat with a group of eclectic neighbors that are sure to grace
the pages of one of my books in the near future. What a terribly boring life I
lead, right?
I've been writing since I pumped out my first short story
at the glorious age of nine. For some reason the story was absolutely violent
beyond belief and I'm thankful that I've been able to tone down the language
since then. I was a vulgar little kid.
I'm continuing the dream of that nine-year-old by writing
full-length novels that will take you to emotional places that you may or may
not want to go, but the journey will leave you fulfilled and unsettled. Two
feelings that I love to invoke.
So read my books! You'll love them, I promise!
And for more about Wayne, visit his site or find him on
Social Media:
Website – Facebook – Twitter – Goodreads – Amazon Page
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